Looking for the Right Kind of Sand
by The Readers Muse
Summary: Egypt was exactly how he had left it, and for the first time in a long time, he smiled, ignoring the eventually ache that resulted when the smile refused to fade, as those long unused muscles protested at such liberal use.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer:** I don't own The Mummy franchise or any of its characters. Believe me, if I did Ardeth and Jonathan would rarely see the light of day. Ever.

**Warnings:** Honestly nothing at all major. Some angst, some fluff, some man kisses, snuggles, and happy naked times, and of course, since we are going for realism here, some sand that gets into some places that sand really has no business getting into. It happens, it's inevitable, kind of like hot man sex in the desert. (Dies with happy).

**Authors Note #1:**Please read and review. I am excited to see what you all think. I am open to comments, advice, and constructive criticism. This is my first Mummy story so I am especially looking for constructive feedback.

**Looking for the Right Kind of Sand**

"_**Happy is he who can give himself up." -- Naguib Mahfouz **_

He wasn't really sure why he eventually left England. It hadn't been a spur of the moment idea, or due to any irrepressible need to go adventuring, or on a gentleman's tour. He had simply woken up one day entirely, and inconsolably heartsick for something that he could neither define, nor name. Finding himself altogetherly at a loss, hapless against the keen burn that had smouldered to a barely contained blaze in his chest, filling his blood with a manic sort of energy that threatened to only build as the idle days continued to pass him by. He began to feel almost smothered by the fathomless pressure that had begun mounting in his breast, something that if he were an honest man, he would have outright admitted to himself had been building and surging within him for quite sometime now.

_He didn't know why, he didn't know how, what, where, or possibility even who…all he knew was that he couldn't stay stagnant in Britain any longer._

And on that damnable morning, the day dawning clouded and threateningly dark enough to suit to his mood, he _still_ didn't know why he forced himself to say a few jokes as he hugged Alex and Evey, or why he plastered on a wreath of encouraging smiles as he shook Rick's hand and allowed him to pull him into a heartfelt gentlemanly embrace. He didn't know why the falsehoods sprang so easily from his tongue as he told them all exactly what they wanted to hear, that he was going abroad for a period, to get some air and stretch his legs as it were, and that _yes_ he would write, and _yes_ he would be back soon, perhaps in a few months or so when the wanderlust was duly satisfied. While at the same time, what he did not tell them, was that the night before; he had quietly packed up his rooms and had everything shipped off to storage.

_He didn't know why he didn't tell them, as honestly, he really didn't know why himself._

But despite all that, despite the easy fake smiles and falsehoods, he was perhaps equally as glad that he wasn't going to be there to see Evey's face as it fell when she would eventually open up his room to grab some book or trinket and only find a room full of echoes, where the sound of her surprise and distress would be all but smothered admits the thick dust covers and the long covering sheets that had been hastily draped over his bare dressers, wardrobes, and book shelves. She would no longer see a rumpled up nest of a bed that was liberally draped with an assortment of quilts and woven rush mats that he had toted all the way from Egypt before they left the first time. Instead, all she would find would be a bed stripped of its linens, a dust cover already placed over it, effectively masking any lingering scent or sign of his possession.

He didn't want to be there for the distressed noise he knew would slip unbidden from her lips, something that he knew would bring Rick and Alex to her side immediately, just as it had bidden him, so many times before in their youth when he would appear at the merest hint of the sound, ready to soothe the hurt. To take her up in his scrawny adolescent arms, murmuring trifles and small comforts in her little ears, holding her until she had entirely forgotten whatever it had been that had caused the sound in the first place.

He didn't want to be there to see Alex's face crumple, not really understanding why his devoted, fun loving uncle would leave them, especially like this, having left wearing a crooked halo of falsehoods and misconceptions. And neither did he want to see Rick's stoic, but growingly troubled look, or the concern that would inevitably flash through his strange, and admittedly somewhat feral American mind. He hoped the old chap wouldn't call in too many favours from contacts of ill acquaintance in order to learn of his whereabouts. He hoped the man would recognize the signs and simply accept the inevitable, that he had left with the intention of not coming back. At least not for a time..not until he figured out what he had to figure out..

_Because if he knew one thing for certain, he knew that he could no longer continue on the way he had been. He simply couldn't, he couldn't take it anymore.._

For a long time he had been content with his life, it had been one of invariable ups and down, trials and triumphs, fleeting victories and lingering contentment. He had both experienced and borne witness to love, death, horror, lust, greed, avarice, adventure, loss, happiness, debt, and victory in all its forms. He knew when to stand and fight, he knew how to hold his own and strike back, and in kind, he also knew when to step back, he knew when to retreat in order to survive and fight another day.

He had lived a life entirely of his own choosing, caring little for the opinions of society, and all the other bureaucratic flap-trap that was rampant in Britain and her colonies. He was not naive, he knew what civilized society thought of Jonathan Carnahan, the treasure hunter, the wild, neglectful scholar, and the wayward son. He knew, yet he cared not a drop. He lived his own life, he enjoyed well the times of enrichment and victory, and in times of hardship and indeed somewhat serious bouts of mischief and boyish shenanigans, he quietly survived and indeed thrived off the challenge.

Thus, before this dark spell had enveloped him, over the length of the past few harrowing months, ones where he had been for all intents and purposes, both prosperous and content, he would have said, that for the vast majority of his years, he had been well pleased with the cards in which life had so varyingly dealt him.

But _now_ something was off, something was _different_..wrong. Now the life he had been living seemed empty and strange. And he didn't want it. Not more. Not again. _He couldn't_.

So, instead of sending that first letter that he had promised to send when he reached his first stop, three weeks, and four countries since Britain he bought a postcard in Cyprus that pictured the Minorca Islands on it, the Spanish flag looking garish and cheap to his English sensibilities as it lay emblazoned across the left hand corner.

And when he all but threw the offending card into the post box, having written only a few broken, hesitant sentences onto the back, he tried not to think about the fact that it slipped from his fingers and into the slot as easy as a lie does from the lips.

He had never even been to Minorca, no self respecting Briton ever would. Too much bad blood had been spilled there, and far too much animosity and hatred still lingered in the hardy, seaside soil for reconciliation. But he had sent it always, and the guilt that had followed his blatantly misdirection faded far quicker then it really should have.

He left Cyprus that very same night. He had never really liked being near Greece that much away. Father had abhorred Greece, so he figured it was all but hereditary.

He wasn't really sure why, but two months and eight countries after the first postcard, he found himself sitting in a dilapidated docking port in British Somaliland, completely surrounded within the potent African wilds, ankle deep in the _wrong_ kind of sand, and staring with a strange sort of focus at a rack of sun faded postcards on display behind dozing travel clerk.

_And while he still didn't know __**why**__, it was in that very moment that he suddenly realized __**where**__ it was he was going. _

He booked passage on the next steamer ship to Egypt, waking the clerk out of a dead sleep with a few sharp words in the local language, spurring the man into action as he clapped for attendants to handle his trunks and luggage even as the apparently nearsighted clerk carefully counted out his pound notes, eyeing the crisp papers with a greedy gleam that was not so dissimilar from that of a particularly stinky companion they had had the displeasure of traveling with on camel-back over eleven years ago now, through the sands of the Sahara, towards Hamunaptra.

A certain stinky companion who just so happened to have had an excellently selective palette when it came to bringing along a particularly delightful red wine. A talent he somehow highly doubted the clerk behind the desk even remotely possessed, as he had had the misfortune to have sampled the local brew the night before. It was a dark sort of swill, something that apparently passed for 'wine' in this part of the world, and while the local rot-gut was certainly potent enough to knock even the most seasoned wine consignor for a loop, it was also quite likely acidic enough to rot through ones stomach lining as well.

The morning before the ship set sail, he wasn't quite sure why, but he found himself purchasing two of those aged postcards, ignoring the curious eyes that had followed him around the length of the shop, weighing heavily against his back as he bid the same clerk from the day before to bring out the circular display of postcards so he could have a closer look.

The rack had squeaked reproachfully as he twirled it around again and again before he finally decided, finding the selection available somewhat lacking in a proper summation of the current nature of the British colonies, but decided not to get too chuffed about it as no sooner had the thought occurred to him, a particularly large German in a crisp brown satin suit and bowler hat shouldered his way to the front of the ticket line beside him, looking for all the world as if he had somehow gotten off at the wrong port, displaying a temper fit to match his ruddy, angry red complexion as he begin to rant and rave in a garbled, barely discernable stream of German. The entire room simply stared in a mixture of irritation, confusion, and awe as the foreign man offended their ears with his admittedly rather brutish language, while at the same time managing looking nearly as though he had just stepped off an advertisement for Bainbridge's itself, looking entirely out of place in his European finery, and stark blond hair.

_Aristocrats! Honestly, satin in this heat?! Any self respecting middle class Englishman would certainly know better!_

This time he didn't think twice as he slipped one of the faded, black and white cards into the rather rickety looking mail slot by the desk, choosing one that had "Montreal, Canada" proudly emblazoned across the front, and thick, block lettering.

However, even as he boarded the steamer and watched thankfully as British Somaliland faded slowly into the distance behind him, he _still_ wasn't quite sure why he had _also_ bought an equally as faded postcard that showed a picture of Egypt's rolling sands. Or why, for the entire length of the voyage he kept it safe in his breast pocket, the side displaying the loose golden sands and the distant dunes turned so it was pressed directly against his heart…

"_**You can tell whether a man is clever by his answers. You can tell whether a man is wise by his questions.**__**"**_

_**-Naquib Manfouz**_

**A/N****:** Let me know if you want me to continue. I am not sure, being newbie to writing in the Mummy fandom, how much of a current desire there is for stories, or indeed attention to them.


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer:** I don't own The Mummy franchise or any of its characters. Believe me, if I did Ardeth and Jonathan would rarely see the light of day. Ever. It's funny because most of you would think that I am joking here…think again lovies.

**Warnings:** Honestly nothing at all major. Some angst, some fluff, some man kisses, snuggles, and happy naked times, and of course, since we are going for realism here, some sand that gets into some places that sand really has no business getting into. It happens, it's inevitable, kind of like hot man sex in the desert. (Dies with happy).

**Authors Note #1:**Please read and review. I am excited to see what you all think. I am open to comments, advice, and constructive criticism. This is my first Mummy story so I am especially looking for constructive feedback.

~Thanks to **Daydreamergirl4life** for reviewing the first chapter. Your review spurred me on to continue this story, thanks for the lovely encouragement!

**Looking for the Right Kind of Sand – Part 2**

"_**As a rock on the seashore he standeth firm, and the dashing of the waves disturbeth him not. He raiseth his head like a tower on a hill, and the arrows of fortune drop at his feet. In the instant of danger, the courage of his heart sustaineth him; and the steadiness of his mind beareth him out.**__** –Akhenaton**_

He wasn't really sure why, but when he took his first step off the ramp and onto the sand covered planks of Cairo's bustling city post, taking his first real breath on solid Egyptian ground, he realized quite suddenly that it had also been the first breath he had taken in nearly a whole year that _didn't_ feel as though he were trying to breathe through concrete.

It felt as though a great pressure had been lifted from him all at once, leaving him almost light headed and stupid with a sort of exhilaration and relief that he couldn't quite name, but revelled in nonetheless.

So, it was for that reason alone that for the first time since this..confusion had darkened his days, he outright refused to dwell on the fact that he still didn't know the how's, whys, where's, or even when's. Instead, he just closed his eyes, and let his senses drink it all in.

…_Remembering._

He was nearly unmanned by the enormity of his feelings. Everything felt entirely and quite wholly _right_, even right down to the unmistakably gritty texture of the first few kernels of the _right kind of sand_ as they gently scoured the inside of his mouth. And for once, he welcomed the vigorous glare of the hot Egyptian sun as it beat down onto his fair skin, infusing his skin with a type of warmth that he hadn't properly felt in years.

He purposefully faced into the gritty, sand-infused winds, letting the breeze whisper it's soft, lilting secrets against the naked skin of his arms and neck. He ignored the tide of people moving around him, all bustling and eager to complete their tasks, or disembark from the ship itself, in favour of simply taking in the characteristic sounds…the smells…and the feel of Cairo.

_It truly had been a long time.._

Egypt was exactly how he had left it, and for the first time in a long time, he smiled, ignoring the eventually ache that resulted when the smile refused to fade, as those long unused muscles protested at such liberal use.

_Because, if he really let himself think about it, it had also been a long time since he had had cause to genuinely smile._

He didn't really know why he didn't pause to reminisce with old chums and companions as he passed through the worn cobblestones of Cairo, nor why he didn't stop in for a brief visit at the Museums of Antiquities and have a chat with the new curator, another old family friend, or why he didn't make any detours to any of his favourite watering holes or card dens.

_In fact, he didn't stop at all, from the port he left instructions for his luggage and simply started walking.._

Indeed, he really didn't even know where he was going until dawn began overtaking the darkness of the night, and the sound of morning prayers floated down through the pre-dawn air from the Mosques, that he realized that he had strode through a good portion of not only the night, but of the city itself, his feet angling him towards the farthest most gates and the stark, lonely deserts that lay beyond.

And he didn't seconded guess them when they halted him directly at the gates entrance, the Sahara beckoning him forward with the old, well known promise of adventure and mystery. _God, he had missed Egypt. _

So, for reasons entirely unknown to him, and due to forces he certainly couldn't even begin to name, he secured his luggage and trunks in a small storage facility still owned through a ninety year lease under his father name. He brought provisions, paid far too much for more one more camel then he actually needed, and stoutly and quite repeatedly refused the offer of a guide, and attendants as he set out into the desert alone on camelback.

He ignored the bold stares from the locals, and the flurry of bets that resulted in his wake as they wagered on the number of days he would last alone in the sands by himself. They only saw another stiff lipped, over confident Englishmen riding off into the inhospitable sands and piercing desert heat. What they didn't know was that this sand might as well have been flowing through his veins rather then his blood. For he had been playing admits these dunes since before his wobbly infant legs could hold his weight, he knew the nature of the desert just as he knew that even the most seasoned and wise Medjai that had lived within it's embrace since birth could just as easily be plucked from life by it's dangers as a stalwart, head strong Englishman.

The nature of the desert was neither kind, nor predictable, it could be beautiful in it's harshness as easily as it could be brutal. For the mortal man it often offered no mercy, nor quarter, and yet it was always utterly honest in its intentions. And perhaps, if he let himself dwell on it, as he slowly relaxed atop the saddle, his body quickly becoming accustomed once more to the lurching, rhythmic stride of the beast below him, that perhaps that is why that he suddenly realized just how much he had missed it.

_The desert never lied, while a man always lied.. and most often to himself at that.._

He didn't really know where he was going, so he gave his camel its head and simply rode onwards for the sheer joy of it, letting the sand whip gently across his skin for a time, pretending not to notice when it took on a caressing, and almost welcoming quality as Cairo shrunk and eventually disappeared in the distance.

_It made him think of something his father had once said while out on a dig, that the desert always recognizes one of its own.._

It was nearly four days later that he began to recognize his surroundings. And he couldn't help by look down at his camel incredulously; half tempted to give the incorrigible beast a sharp swat and a serious dressing down for good measure.

_Because really, he couldn't be where he was very much beginning to think he was…could he?_

But either way, he knew he had to be sure, so after a long, piercing look around him, the churning in his gut not at all quelled by the sandy hued serenity around him. He slid down from his perch, hobbling both the camels as he wrapped his black, native made head covering fully around his head, face, and neck before setting off into the sands.

To anyone else his course would have look daft, and possibility even insane, as on first glance, there was nothing there, nothing around him save for the sand and the distant roiling dunes facing off as far as one could see into the horizon.

He had only walked a few meters forward when he suddenly stopped at the crest of a small dune. Looking around him, he surveyed the area closely, his eyes alert for any movement before he dropped into a low crouch. Sitting back on his haunches he enjoyed the tense stretch in his hamstrings as he tentatively probed the sand in front of him, mindless of the way his tan trouser cuffs billowed with the force a sudden gust of wind, the sound roaring across the empty desert plane like an ancient, throaty moan.

Slowly, and very cautiously, he pressed one foots weight on the sand before him. When it didn't give way he took another slow, measured step, and then another. After six steps he began to half believe that he had been imagining things, that or the sand and his musings into the past had cause his mind to play tricks on him. But just as he was about to turn around and head back towards the camels, his sharp gaze caught something out of the corner of his eye, the unmistakable glint of metal reflecting in the desert sun.

Caution all but forgotten his heart leapt to his throat as he all but fell upon the barely visible metallic patch. He dug feverish for a few moments, his heart seeming to pound faster and faster as more the thing was uncovered. It was the moment that he uncovered the numerical designation, and the still visible decal of the ever proud Union Jack on the jagged, broken tail that he knew he _wasn't_ mistaken.

It was Winston's biplane, the last of her Majesty's Royal Air Force stationed in Cairo. And as he blew off a filmy layer of slightly damp sand, wiping the tail piece jutting out from the ground free of the grimy sand he realized that this could mean only one thing.

_Hamunaptra…_

"_**As a camel beareth labour, and heat, and hunger, and thirst, through deserts of sand, and fainteth not; so the fortitude of a man shall sustain him through all perils." **_

_**--Akhenaton quotes (King of Egypt, 14th century BC)**_

**A/N: As before, let me know if you want another chapter!**


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer:** I don't own The Mummy franchise or any of its characters. Believe me, if I did Ardeth and Jonathan would rarely see the light of day. Ever. It's funny because most of you would think that I am joking here…think again lovies.

**Warnings:** Honestly nothing at all major. Some angst, some fluff, some man kisses, snuggles, happy naked times, and of course, since we are going for realism here, some sand that gets into some places that sand really has no business getting into. It happens, it's inevitable, kind of like hot man sex in the desert. (Dies with happy).

**Authors Note #1:**Please read and review. I am excited to see what you all think. I am open to comments, advice, and constructive criticism. This is my first Mummy story so I am especially looking for constructive feedback.

**Looking for the Right Kind of Sand – Part 3**

"_**My utterance is mighty, I am more powerful than the ghosts; may they have no power over me." –The Egyptian Book of the Dead**_

He lurched to his feet so quickly that his head nearly spun. He glared into the sun through his face cover, staring into the empty, unassuming horizon as if he fully expected to see the ruined city simply spring out from the distant sands due to his very presence. After all, if this_ was_ Winston's plane, that could only mean that Hamunaptra certainly wasn't far.

But nothing appeared... No cursed mirage rippling outwards, no pillars or pyramids looming in the distance, no feelings of imminent doom or even the smallest wisps of a magically created sandstorm…_Nothing. There was nothing.._

And strangely as he stood there, he was forced to realize that he really wasn't as terrified, or as upset as he knew he rightly should have been. Instead, the longer he stood there, staring out at the not too distant horizon where he knew the damned city lay, hidden from sight in the dying light of the day, he realized that he was actually remarkably calm.

_Something that he figured, given the situation and his past experience with the cursed place was nothing short of extraordinary.._

Instead, if anything, he felt…_expectant_. And despite knowing it sounded completely daft, he couldn't shake the strange feeling rising from his gut that was somehow telling him that he had _finally_ just come full circle, _as if this was where he had been going all along…_

And for a small moment, in spite of it all, he felt a smile twitch coyly across the span of his lips, flirting with the edges as he breathed out in a long, measured breath, letting the heady desert air quell any remaining doubts within him as he gave the horizon another long, piercing look. Then, after a moments pause, before he headed back towards the camels he stooped down once again and carefully covered up the small hole he had dug around the tail of the plane, watching as the slightly rusted metal tail piece slowly disappeared from view under the golden sands. This was after all, a good mans final resting place.

It was fitting that Winston had 'chucked it in, in flame and glory' as he so often had remarked on having desired, finally joining his comrades in the endless desert landscape that had slowly claimed them all. But perhaps it was even more fitting that he be buried within the sands that he secretly loved. For Winston Havelock might have indeed been the last of the Royal Air force, but it was just as true that that obstinate fellow, large grey walrus moustache and all, like so many others before him, had fallen in love with Egypt. And just as much as duty bade him to remain at his post for all those years, he knew for a fact that there had once been a stack of unopened letters languishing underneath a layer of dust and cobwebs upon his old, beaten up desk back at the airstrip. In those letters Winston had been repeatedly, and very much officially been bade to return to England and retire from the Air force in fine fashion and style. But the man had never opened them. Because despite all the old codgers talk, he had never really been looking for an excuse to leave, at least not Egypt at any rate.

He decided to camp about a mile past the crash site, choosing a naturalized hollow created by the sifting dunes and constant winds, as he went about setting up his tent. He wasn't _really_ sure _why_ he hadn't just turned around, making use of the remaining day light and getting as far away from this place as possible…

But for the first time in a long.._long_ time, he decided he was done with running. Done with chasing after something he couldn't name, or define. Done with the doubt, and confusion. _Done_.

So with a stubbornness to rival the tenacity and headstrong nature of his baby sister, he thumbed his nose in the face of evil, magically cursed books, world destroying mummies, flesh eating beetles, and nasty ancient things in general. Indeed, instead of turning around on the spot, flogging the camels for speed, and racing the nightmares of the past back to the relative safety of Cairo's walls, he hung his tea pot over the fire and brewed a spot of good, old fashioned English tea smack daub amidst what, for all intents and purposes, was very likely Hamunaptra's extended front yard.

_Because, after all, there was never a wrong time for good cuppa' or two.._

That being said he wasn't exactly sure why he wasn't _more_ surprised when in the middle of the night, as he lay inside his tent, fully clothed on top if his bedroll, that he heard the close jingle of a horses bit and bridle, and the slight, but entirely unique sound that can only mean the sway of a body as it shifts from atop a leather saddle.

But for a long time, he kept himself still. Merely staring up at the same off white canvas roof he had camped under since his boyhood, the tent being the very same one that his father had used during his unmarried days while he was out on a dig or off in the field somewhere. It was one of the only things he still had from his father, and indeed one of the only things he _still _didn't know why he _hadn't_ just left in Britain, packed into nondescript boxes that were not even labelled like all the rest of his possessions. Boxes that were likely already mouldering in the damp darkness of some storage faculty.. that is if Evey hadn't already tracked them down and bribed the owners into bringing the whole lot back to the house, with the three of them going about unpacking and setting up his room just as it had been before he had left. And if he knew his sister it would have already been done, her own little personal act of protest.

_Either way of course, it didn't much matter._

It was only when he heard the creak of leather again, and the soft, barely discernable thump of two strong feet sliding gracefully into the sand, dismounting from a softly whickering horse that he decided it was time to move.

His hand clenched around his primed pistol, fingers wrapping intimately around the worn redwood stock, the finish dull to the touch around the trigger, worn from many years of loving use. Noiselessly his hand moved to undo the hidden rear fastenings on the tent, an addition he had made to the thick canvas on a whim not long after the three of them returned to Cairo after their escapades in Hamunaptra. At the time he had been in the heightened mood self preservation and had listened avidly to all of O'Connel's exploits from his days in the Foreign Legion. He had been particularly inspired by the story regarding Rick's timely escape from a group of particularly nasty Tuareg horsemen, where, once cornered in his tent, Rick had cut through the back of it with a buck knife, creating a door of sorts in a rather unconventional, but obviously highly successful manner.

Soon after returning to the city, he had tracked down Cairo's most proficient seamstress, calling in a few favours owed to him by his drinking and carousing mates in order to do it, and had employed the aged woman to construct him a sort of escape hatch in the rear of the tent, something easily assessable for the people inside, providing a ready means of escape, while at the same time remaining utterly undetectable if one were to examine the tent from the outside. _And now, the little beaut' of an idea was certainly making up for the expense!_

The ties free, and the canvas effectively loosened, he waited until he heard the pace of the man's footsteps again before, with a bit of a shuffling sound, he managed to roll himself out the back of the tent just as the shadow of his uninvited camp guest loomed over the thick canvas front.

He crouched around the corner, peering through the gloom as he watched the shadowy figure bend down to check the heat from the fire, as if attempting to determine how long ago it had been banked.

_Strange..he would have expected the invader to simply let loose on the tent with a sword hewn vengeance..This man was notably different from the other more violent nomads he knew that prowled the sands.._

From what he could see the man was large in stature and clothed in the black robes common to the natives that lived in the sands around Cairo and Thebes. He wore headdress as well, much like the one he had been wearing for the past few days, for protection against the harsh desert glare. Only unlike him, the man also carried an curved sword, unsheathed and half raised in his right palm, as though on guard but confident in his own abilities, with the promise of more weapons lingering in the bulky shadows around his waist.

Spotting the mans horse tied up near the camels he waited until the man had stalked over to the front of the tent, bound feet hushing the subtle grind of sand under his feet to a near whisper.

But then, as the mans attention was fixed towards the tent flaps, instead of running, or slipping between the dunes towards the horse as he likely should have done, heat flared in his breast, righteous anger, frustration, and indignation making him bold, and instead, he hunched around the corner of the tent, taking careful aim..

The moment he fired he felt a jerk of sensation roll through him, a potent mixture of the jolt of the shot leaving the barrel, steeped in a high scream from one small portion of his brain that was screaming willy-nilly in his brain for him to just turn and _run_. And yet there was also the thrill of victory, and the overwhelming demand for more…more..and _more_ coursing up his veins like napalm set alight.

He hit exactly were he had aimed, with the force of the bullet sending the curved sword flying out and away from the intruders grip with a indignant shriek of stressed iron and the mans startled shout.

He didn't even give the man a moment to collect himself, and mere seconds later, for reasons he probably would never be able to fully explain even to himself, he found himself flinging forward, launching himself at the man in a bruising tackle and colliding with the man with the dull crack of limb meeting limb, a wordless bellow ripping from his lips like a war cry.

He managed to laid down vicious upper cut to the mans jaw, and another harsh blow into his stomach before the man was able to recover, and that was when the tussling and wrestling began in earnest.

It was dirty, brutal, vicious, and it was bloody well _glorious_! There were no rules, no etiquette, and no holds barred. This was survival, plain and simple, and like a spring being released under tension he simply threw his all into it, mindless to all else but the burning twang coursing through his muscles as he strained to keep the stronger, more adept man's limbs in check, and the sudden broil as his blood sang and thrummed through his veins, making him struggle back _that much_ harder, making him bite, snarl, kick, grunt, punch, and growl in a perpetual whirlwind of motion, as the intruder struggling with him did the exact same, both of them trying to maintain the upper hand long enough to deliver a stunning blow, or reach the fallen pistol and sword laying abandoned in the sand by the tent.

He was lost to all else as they locked together in a crude parody of a lovers embrace, fighting back against the intruder every inch of the way, regardless of the fact that the mans superior strength and bulk were slowly turning the tide of the fight in his favour..

It was in that moment, as if by chance, as they rolled to a stop near the banked fire, finding himself effectively pinned underneath the man, that his desperate hands suddenly closed around the head scarf covering the mans face and instinctively he ripped it downward just as awareness blossomed in his attackers dark, smouldering eyes…

_**"And on the pedestal these words appear:**______**  
**__**'My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:**______**  
**__**Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!' **__**  
**__**Nothing besides remains…**_

_**Round the decay**______**  
**__**Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare**______**  
**__**The lone and level sands stretch far away." **_

_**-Percy Bysshe Shelley (From Ozymandias)**_


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer:** I don't own The Mummy franchise or any of its characters. Believe me, if I did Ardeth and Jonathan would rarely see the light of day. Ever. It's funny because most of you would think that I am joking here…think again lovies.

**Warnings:** Honestly nothing at all major. Some angst, some fluff, some man kisses, snuggles, and happy naked times, and of course, since we are going for realism here, some sand that gets into some places that sand really has no business getting into. It happens, it's inevitable, kind of like hot man sex in the desert. (Dies with happy).

**Authors Note #1:**Please read and review. I am excited to see what you all think. I am open to comments, advice, and constructive criticism. This is my first Mummy story so I am especially looking for constructive feedback.

**A/N #2:** Yikes, so I THOUGHT this was going to be the last chapter, but after a lot of thinking and fiddling around with the content I decided it needed to have another chapter added on for it to work properly. Otherwise it would have been a massive block of text. Sooooo this is the **second last chapter**! (Sorry about the wait, I had work, and a serious case of writers block…and also a lot of not so subtle demands to start thinking about my OTHER half done stories..MEEP.)

**Looking for the Right Kind of Sand – Part 4**

_**"The thoughts we choose to act upon define us to others, the ones we do not define us to ourselves." – Yahia Lababidi**_

In a single instant he saw the whole, near year of his aimless traveling reduced to one lone destination. Because _now_ he finally saw it, now he _could_ finally see it, _all of _it.. For the first time since this entire sordid saga had begun it was all quite suddenly clear.

.._And the realization was akin to a lightening bolt to the brain._

There had only been_ one_ real cause. It had all been spurred by only _one_ deeply buried desire. A _single_ need, _a single_ person..a _single_ man.

_Ardeth…_

If his wanderings and heartache, his confusion, disenchantment, and dissatisfaction with both the world, and indeed himself could be melded together and formed into one single image, then it would be that of the scene they had all left behind them almost two years ago. Where amidst the heady golden sands of the lost oasis of Ahm Shere, Ardeth Bay, Medjai warrior and Chieftain to his people had reared up his horse and bid them farewell for the second time from atop that damnable sandy dune surrounded by a kaleidoscoping backdrop of golden hues, desert tans, and pure sapphire skies.

_..And good grief! Apparently he was getting philosophical in his encroaching middle age…God save him._

He didn't know why, but despite the fact that recognition was _still_ sweeping across the warrior's face and the mans grip had not loosened, despite all the danger, all at once he felt something inside him just.._give._

Almost as if we were an observer to his own form, he felt his body become malleable…_loose_. It felt as though everything he had been keeping clinched up inside of him for the past two years had simply _given way _underneath the weighty press of those large, darkly tanned palms.

_And it felt a lot like redemption._

For a moment, just a single bloody moment, he saw every scene, every moment in the past twelve years as it flew by like the blurred flicker of a rewinding cinema reel. He saw the flash of a dark man with thick black curls bowed back against the force of the wind as he charged towards him, a hungry, wickedly curved sword unsheathed and aimed for _him_. He saw the look in the mans eyes and remembered the feel of his hands as they curled tight and firm around the skin of his shoulders as Rick had yelled for Ardeth to hold him before stinging steel dipped into his flesh, flipping that damnable beetle out from inside him right in the nick of time. He remembered the feeling of the man's breath and the slight burn of the mans facial hair as it brushed against the sensitive skin of his neck as he could have sworn the man had leaned in closer in response to his pained shout. He remembered the smell of the man, all foreign and exotic, like the unique scent of the deep desert sands, the spiced, acrid twang of sweat, of sandalwood and saddle harness polish, and that unique, but nakedly honest smell that simply eludes masculinity, heady and musky in all the right ways.

He saw that moment, not two years ago now, on that damnable ridge in the Ahm Shere Oasis, where his heart had seemed to freeze in place as he had seen that evil fellow creeping up behind the black robed warrior, the man too involved with fighting off that big hulk of a man to notice. And he remembered the way his face his gone taunt, taking on such a fierce look that he had almost not recognized the feel of the expression on his own face even the rifle cracked out his victory, and the man fell, _his_ bullet tearing through the evil man's heart. And perhaps, most of all, he remembered the look on Ardeth's face mere seconds after, as his face had turned toward the ridge, his eyes unfathomable as always, but the twitch of his lips giving his appreciation, surprise, and pleasure away as clearly as if he had spoken it aloud.

_He would remember that look till his death bed. It had been a true victory, a good victory, a clean and honest win... A rarity not only in his own life, but in the strange and ever changing world they all seemed to live in._

He saw those and a hundred other little moments, and for a few heart stopping seconds he could of sworn he was back in the moment where he had been strapped to the left wing of Winston Havelock's aged little biplane, his face pointing directly into the howling wind as he found out first hand what flying felt like. Feeling the insurmountable terror and fear that was strangely mixed in together with an almost giddy feeling, a sort of primal, half wild excitement that had rose in his breast as they had banked and flown on, on towards Evey, mortal peril, and towards what at the time he had been very sure would include a very painful death.

_It had all been quite terrifyingly glorious.._

And yet, even then, his experience had been something that had almost seemed to pale in comparison, when all he could hear over the aggressive roar of the wind, was the excited whoops and wordless exclamations comings from the man strapped to the wing on the other side of him.

Because really, it was pretty hard to be focused on his own imminent mortal peril and all the other various forms of gruesome death he had been positive their old chum Imhotep was cooking up for them, when a thus far, extremely reserved, grim, and admittedly quite formable Medjai warrior such as Ardeth Bay was reduced to chattering along in a mix of Arabic, and what sounded suspiciously like Ancient Egyptian when his grasp of English proved to be insignificant enough to express his excitement.

_Indeed, he challenged anyone who knew the Medjai not to be moved by such boyish whoops and pleased cries._

A few long moments later, he was jarred out of his revive as he felt the strangest sensation, feeling the exact moment when the man above him relaxed. It was strange, yet somehow intimate in the way the man' body seemed to almost sag, pressing down against him as the muscles gradually lost their tension and the man slowly relaxed.

"Jonathan?" The words were soft, and lilting in nature as his strong Arabic accent infused the words of his name in a way that _still_ sent chills coursing down his spine, infusing his body in an entirely different sort of warmth, then the pervasive desert heat.

The feelings now coursing through him, steadily flowing over the remnants of the urge to fight or flee, were akin to ones first taste of true Egyptian coffee, the kind that is smoked to perfection, slow cooked over a banked fire, and served with more sugar than a man should sensibly take, with the thick, potent like syrup never failing to make ones eyes close in bliss.

So perhaps that is why, that instead of speaking, he reached up, hands bold in spite of himself as he _finally_, finally, put his hands on the mans heated skin. _And_ _damn the consequences,_ but he simply could not shake the feeling that this…_this_ was just far too right.

He let one palm run down the length of the Medjai's tanned cheek, taking in the way his adam's apple visibly shuddered as he rubbed a long, torturously slow circle into the skin that held the mans prominent tattoo. He let his hand continue down along the curve of the mans face, thumbing the corners of the mans lips, the nerve endings in his fingers sending delighted thrills of sensation through him as they slid across the man coarse evening stubble.

And then it was suddenly a lot like dominos, as just like when the first piece falls, the others inevitably follow in it wake.. Because now he found that he simply could not stop touching the man. Seemingly without his consent his other hand disentangled itself from the mans headdress, twisting out from underneath their jumbled mess of tangled limbs like a sand viper to join his other hand in the perusal of the mans face.

And all the while the man just…_let him_. Hovering unsteadily over him, as the warrior's body shuddered with pleasure induced tremors, quaking at each touch of _his_ hand_, taking it all in…_

_..It was too unbelievable and torturously exquisite to even be a dream! A delusion perhaps, but most certainly not a dream!_

It was only when his hand, currently buried deep amidst the mans wild black curls had inadvertently _tugged_ that something just short of an.._implosion_ happened between them. Because before he had even rightly figured out what had actually happened, the man let loose a surprised grunt as his head dipped downwards following the yanking movement as the man's thick curls got caught in between his fingers, causing his face to awkwardly brush against the naked skin of his collarbone, and the unmistakable catch of dry lips trailing across sensitive flesh.

But he didn't even have a moment to _even think_ about embarrassment or apologies because the man's surprised grunt had suddenly turned into a throaty growl, and he was suddenly looking _directly_ into those dark, sable eyes, the mans chin pressing into his chest as suddenly, and altogether shockingly the man was _finally_ moving atop him.

Hips were abruptly bearing down upon his own, grinding against him in the most delicious, and utterly indescribable way as his hips arose eagerly to the occasion, unconsciously bucking up for more friction. Hands that were not his own had suddenly fallen on his flesh, moulding, pulling, caressing, and gripping in a frenzy of touches that left him mindless to all else but the _feeling_.

It wasn't just the feeling of flesh against flesh, and all those other admittedly pressing carnal feelings. It was more then that, it was the feeling of finality, redemption, and completion. It was the one feeling, the one _thing_ in his life that _finally_ made sense in god only knows how long.

He still wasn't exactly sure who kissed who first, but perhaps they actually met in the middle somewhere because suddenly he had a handful of the mans billowing black robes fit to match the grip the man had on the collar of his old tan jacket, which was currently seized fast and firm in the warrior's large fists.

Because if _anything _was going to be said about this insane, confused, and yet still strangely glorious affair, it would most certainly NOT be said that Jonathan Edward Carnahan didn't give as good as he bloody well got!

And with that last thought he surged upward meeting the man's body in mid air, the movement sending trickles of sand hissing into the banked fire beside them as his hands shot out, weaving deeply into the wild mess of the mans long black curls as he yarded the startled man down for a soul searing kiss of his own..

"_**What you are doing does not matter so much as what you are learning from doing it. **__**It is better not to know and to know that one does not know**__**, than presumptuously to attribute some random meaning to symbols." –Egyptian proverb**_


End file.
